


The House Guest

by Mnemophobia



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, Dubious Consent, Humiliation, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Submission
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-16 08:42:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4618911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mnemophobia/pseuds/Mnemophobia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon Solo's live-in girlfriend has been keeping a big secret from him. Now the pair have an unexpected and unusual house guest. Will their relationship survive the red peril?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

"How long has this been going on?" I have many questions, but this is the first to reach my tongue. I realize now that she's carefully chosen the location for her confession.  I have no choice but to keep my voice low in the crowded restaurant. Smart.

Gaby sips her zinfandel before answering me. "Before I met you. I wasn't sure I could trust you with my secret."

I can't say I blame her for that. Even now, I'm not sure if she should be trusting me with this. Not that I intend to tell anyone, but I'm not sure if I should be continuing my relationship with Miss Teller.

"Don't look so sour, Napoleon. It's not what you think," Gaby says. She looks so damn innocent. For a moment I want to believe that I've misunderstood her. Perhaps something has been lost in translation.

"Then what is it?" I ask.

"Well, it's not sexual. At least not for me. Honestly, I'm not sure whether what he gets out of it is emotional or sexual, but there's no sexual contact," Gaby answers.

"Darling, sexual or not, we don't have the room," I tell her. I'm trying to be pragmatic about this.

"I promise he won't take up much space," she says, looking at me with those irresistible brown puppy-dog eyes.

I break away from her gaze and drain the rest of my scotch to clear my head. Am I really considering inviting another man into my home?

"He has nowhere else to go," Gaby pleads. I make the mistake of looking into her eyes again and I know I am hopeless. Maybe even a little helpless.

"... Alright," I relent. A waiter passes and I gesture for another drink.

I'm going to need it.

  



	2. Coffee

The morning light is blinding but I can smell the coffee percolating in the kitchen. My movements are automatic as I roll out of bed and make my way to the kitchen. The coffee pot is in sight when my foot catches on something in my path and my chin nearly slams into the countertop before I catch myself. The thing I’d just tripped over scrambles to it’s feet.

“I am so sorry Mr. Solo.” The thick Russian accent is alarming.

The height of the thing is even more alarming. He’s built like a powerlifter and I wonder if Gaby was being truthful when she told me the man worked as an architect.

“What are you doing on the kitchen floor?” I demand.

The Russian hurries to pour cup of coffee with shaking hands. I don’t realize the coffee is intended for me until he presses the hot cup into my hand.

“Please forgive me, Mr. Solo. I should not have been sleeping,” he says.

I stare. For a man who is homeless and sleeping on my kitchen floor, he’s surprisingly clean-cut. Even his pajamas are sharp.

“The problem isn’t that you were sleeping. The problem is that you’re in the middle of my kitchen floor. Why didn’t you sleep on the couch?” I ask impatiently. A sip of the coffee soothes my anger. This isn’t the dreck Gaby makes, it’s light and aromatic and all of those descriptive words they use on the bag.

“Miss Gaby ordered me to sleep here,” he answers, his gaze averted to the floor. There isn’t even a damn blanket for him.

“Well Gaby is at work so just relax,” I sigh. I knew this was going to be strange, but I didn’t count on it being this strange. The word ‘ordered’ rings in my ears. I can’t imagine my little Gaby ordering anyone around, not in any real seriousness anyway, let alone this enormous Russian workhorse.

I take my coffee and newspaper to the balcony, ignoring my house guest. I intend to avoid him as much as possible for the duration of his stay, but it is difficult to ignore the enormous figure scrubbing my dishes and tidying the living room.

By 7:15 the apartment is spotless and my house guest is dressed for work. Even in a sharp suit and crisp white shirt, the man looks like a powerhouse of strength. This is not the image I had in mind when Gaby said the word ‘submissive’. Those shoulders are anything but.

With my houseguest gone I can finally return to my usual day off routine. The bathroom is cleaner than I’ve ever seen it, especially since Gaby moved in with her expensive facial creams and lotions. The countertop that is usual littered with beauty products is neatly organized and scrubbed spotless.

In the shower I ponder the possible benefits of this arrangement, but I can’t shake the knot that forms in my stomach when I think about doing what Gaby has asked of me. I realize I’ve been lost in thought for too long when the water turns icy.

My closet has been reorganized. The suits that previously hung haphazardly are now neatly arranged on new cedar hangers. I brush my hands across them in search of my favorite suit and realize that they have been sorted by the weight of the fabric, my seersucker and linens to the left and the heavier wool and cashmere to the right. I turn around to find the collars of my shirts crisp and freshly pressed. The Russian doesn’t miss a thing.

Normally I’d spend my day off lounging about the apartment in my robe, but the evidence of our houseguest’s work is inescapable here. I dress quickly and leave for the club. A game of racquetball will take my mind of this insanity, if I spend too much time thinking about it I might come to my senses, and that sounds like it would be rather messy.


	3. Rassolnik

The lights are on inside the apartment when I return. More evidence of our houseguest assaults my senses as I step inside. He’s cooking. Something foreign and very unfamiliar by the smell of it. Before I can investigate further Gaby loops her arms around my waist and stands on the tips of her toes to kiss my neck.

“Isn’t he wonderful? The apartment looks gorgeous and he’s already making dinner. It’s some sort of pickle soup. Isn’t that hilarious? We’ll get take out if it’s dreadful,” Gaby says with a giddy laugh.

“I guess this explains why you’ve never taken an interest in learning to cook,” I say. I’m beginning to realize that this explains a lot of things about Gaby’s habits. She’s used to having someone clean up after her. I’m not unused to beautiful, spoiled women; they have… Other redeeming qualities, but this is taking it to another level.

“I have better things to do than cook,” Gaby says dismissively. I watch as she kicks her heels off in the middle of the floor, no doubt deliberately so that the Russian will have to pick them up later.

“Rassolnik is done, Miss Gaby,” the Russian calls out from the kitchen. I notice that the table is set as fastidiously as everything else he touches, but there are only two place settings there. My face flashes hot with jealous anger at the deliberate snub until I realize Gaby is waiting for me to take the other seat. She picks up on my intense gaze cast on the perplexing table and slides her hand down my spine.

“You didn’t think I was going to let him eat with us, did you?” she laughs.

She had promised this wouldn’t change things between us. She assured me that the Russian is not a boyfriend or a lover. He isn’t even allowed to lay a hand on her. This is all some sort of elaborate game. What I still don’t understand is what the Russian is getting out of it.

“Illya, you are dismissed for the night,” Gaby says. The quiet Russian disappears while Gaby waits for me to pull out her chair. I try to keep up the pretense that things are normal and kiss her cheek and slide her chair closer to the table.

I have no idea what Rassolnik is, but it smells rather good. I pick up my spoon and try not to think too hard about the man who made our dinner. Like the coffee, the soup is exceptional.

While I eat, Gaby chitters about the latest issues at work. I listen, but half my attention is tangled with thoughts of our guest. It seems unbearably rude to leave him to eat in the kitchen, even if for the sake of keeping the status quo like Gaby had promised me.

“Do you not like the soup? I can have him make you something else,” Gaby says, switching topics when she catches me scowling at my bowl.

“No, it’s fine. He’s done more than enough for the day.” I don’t mean for my tone to be as critical as it sounds, but Gaby catches on to my disapproval.

“He likes it, Napoleon. It’s what he lives for,” she says.

“He lives to scrub your bathroom and iron my shirts?” I ask skeptically. I just can’t accept that a man, especially a man like that, would actually enjoy this lifestyle. And if he was enjoying it, I would expected him to have come across a bit warmer than the arctic circle.

Beneath the table Gaby’s bare feet slide up the leg of my trousers. Her cat eyes pin me down, and she smiles. “Aww, are you getting jealous, Napoleon?” she teases in sing-song.

“I’m not jealous, Gaby. I’m concerned,” I say. I try to keep my tone firm, but her toes are very warm, and climbing higher.

“You just have to trust me. I promise you, it’s what he wants. It benefits all of us,” she purrs.

That glint in her eye is promising that she’ll remind me of all of those other redeeming features if I just play along. I suppose if it’s what they both want, it’s not really hurting anyone, and… I can’t exactly complain about having a bathroom that’s too clean and shirts that are perfectly pressed, now can I?

I still have questions, but when Gaby rises from the table and heads for the bedroom with a little glance over her shoulder, I can’t help but drop my spoon and follow. Whatever is going on can wait until tomorrow, I’ve already wasted most of my day off thinking about it. I stop as I pass the entrance to the kitchen, looking in at the tall Russian leaning against the counter eating soup from a bowl. He doesn’t look particularly miserable in this moment, though I can’t say I’ve seen a single smile, either.

“Don’t forget, couch is right over there,” I remind him, gesturing towards the living room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day! I hope everyone likes where this is going.


	4. Singular Obedience

A week has passed and I rarely see our houseguest. I think he’s taking care to avoid me, doing his chores when I’m not around and running his errands when I am. I can’t tell if he’s being courteous or deliberately mysterious. I’m not sure which I’d prefer, either. The idea that the Russian would go out of his way for my comfort still rubs me the wrong way.

I would forget we even have a guest if it weren’t for the cleanliness of the house, the fresh coffee that waits for me every morning, and the small duffel bag that he keeps tucked beneath our coffee table.

I haven’t caught him sleeping on the kitchen floor since that first day, but there’s no evidence that he’s been sleeping on the couch either. I worry that he’s still sleeping on the cold kitchen floor, but I’m afraid to ask. If I ask, I’ll have to do something about it. I’m not sure if it would be my place to interfere with something that seems to be running smoothly.

The Russian finally makes an appearance on Gaby’s day off. She told me last night that she wanted to spend a nice day together at home. I assumed that would mean the Russian would be gone, but I nearly trip over him again on my way to the coffee pot. This time he’s on his hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor.

“You don’t have to do that.” I don’t mean to sound as irritated as I do.

“It’s dirty,” he says without looking up at me.

“Darling, don’t bother Illya while he’s doing his chores,” Gaby scolds as she comes in from the patio, tracking dirt across the damp floor. The only dirt on the patio is in the potted plants.

Before I can ask Gaby about it, she’s pulling me down for a kiss. The kiss ends too quickly and she’s pulling me into the living room where breakfast is already laid out on the coffee table, the morning paper right beside it. I’m surprised by Gaby’s thoughtfulness until I spot the duffel bag beneath the table and remember who is really responsible.

I pick up my coffee and bite back my feeling of guilt as I settle into the couch. I’m too tired to start anything, but at this point I doubt we’re going to have that relaxing day Gaby promised. I have too many questions, and my mood is too sour. I take a sip of coffee in the hopes that it will calm me down. If I talk to Gaby about this, I need to have the upper hand. Negotiation is one of my stronger points, I get paid the big bucks for it; but a skilled negotiator knows one when he sees one. Gaby’s silver tongue is one of the reasons I was attracted to her in the first place.

“Gaby, I think we need to talk about Illya,” I tell her, forcing the words out before I lose my nerve.

“Oh, I hope he hasn’t overstayed his welcome already,” she says. Her concern sounds so genuine, but I don’t know how she could think that. The Russian is more servant than guest. I feel as if I ought to be paying him for services rendered.

“It’s not that,” I say, still struggling to articulate my discomfort. I like to think of myself as an open-minded, modern man. Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought it up before I’d rehearsed it.

“Then what is it? You’re not getting jealous again, are you?” she asks, her tone teasing. Inviting.

“It’s not that, Gaby. I’m just uncomfortable with… all of this,” I say, gesturing to the pristine room and the breakfast he’s made for us. “I don’t understand why he does it,” I finally blurt out.

Gaby laughs, a soft, tinkling sound that would fit in nicely at any cocktail party or social function. I don’t know if she’s more amused by my discomfort or my lack of understanding. Either way, I find her dismissiveness irritating. I’m an experienced man, but this particular proclivity is just something I can not grasp, and considering how far outside of the realm of normal it is, I don’t find my want for an explanation to be particularly unreasonable. I may be a modern man but everyone has their limits.

She seems to notice my irritation and the smile leaves her face. She takes a deep breath, squaring her petite shoulders and picking up her coffee cup.

“I’ve explained it to you before, Napoleon,” she says curtly. This time she’s the one to sound irritated. “He enjoys it. You have heard of a fetish before, haven’t you? This is his fetish,” she says.

“But you’ve been insisting it’s not sexual,” I counter. A sexual game I would understand, I’ve had more than my fair share of romps and romances. This hardly feels the same.

“Well, it is and it isn’t,” she says. She’s so casual about it all. I can’t help but find it at least mildly shocking. Her blase reaction about it all makes me feel like I’m overreacting. “There’s no sexual contact. I don’t touch him and he’s not allowed to touch me. But he does get something out of it. He finds submission thrilling.”

“And what about you? Do you only do it for the free labor?” I ask. Of course she doesn’t. I’ve seen that look of mischievous delight on her face when she watches him obey her orders. I can hardly fault her for that, power appeals to all. She takes a long drink of her coffee, her eyes sliding away from mine as she chooses her words carefully. I can practically see her calculating away, picking out just what to say that will put me at ease. Whether or not I’ll go along with it depends entirely on what she says.

“... I do enjoy it,” she finally admits. “I like ordering him around and you know I like being pampered, Napoleon. He fulfills a desire I… I can’t and wouldn’t want to have fulfilled by you.”

“So you don’t want me down on my hands and knees?” I ask. Maybe that’s what has been bothering me. The worry that she’ll have me bowing down to her too. As much as I like to think I’m immune to her charms to that degree, it would be foolish of me to underestimate her. For all I know, the Russian could have started out the same way.

Gaby laughs genuinely and drops her hand to my knee, her perfect manicure digging softly into my leg as she squeezes. “Oh please, Darling, don’t be silly. We both know that’s not your style. I’d just as soon expect you on your hands as knees as I’d expect myself to be there. We’re not meant for that, and you know it. That’s why we need someone like Illya in our lives. I think if you’d just give it a try, you’d like it as much as I do.”

She gives my knee a decisive pat and leans back, and there’s promise in her voice. I don’t even want to consider that she might be right.

“I really doubt that,” I tell her, though my firmness is more illusion than certainty. I’m not unaccustomed to taking charge and giving orders, but this extremity of indentured servitude is different than demanding a P&L by the end of the day. I’m still not convinced that the Russian is a truly willing participant here. Something almost haunting about those eyes...

“I think what you need is to talk to him yourself,” Gaby interrupts my thoughts, as if she’s read my mind. The idea that she might be able to do just that is momentarily terrifying. Or maybe I’m more transparent than I like to believe.

I finish the last of my coffee and set the cup down, considering what I might even ask the Russian. It wasn’t the kind of question that came up in everyday discussions. If it were up to me I’d prefer to stick with a traditional ‘How’s the weather’ and avoid the discomfort of it all. Interpersonal conflict is… Messy and not something I enjoy.

Gaby stands up, taking her coffee with her as she peers down at me, her hand finding the warm side of my cheek.

“I’ll leave you two alone and you can ask him anything you want.” She purses her lips at me in a small kiss and lets me go, heading back towards the kitchen. “Illya, come!” The sharpness of her voice feels a stark contrast to her affection moments ago, and I wonder which one was more of a performance for her.

The Russian appears in the doorway a moment later. I know he’s been down on his hands and knees scrubbing the floor, but he’s straight out of a modern men’s catalogue. Not that I don’t appreciate good taste, but I wouldn’t be wearing my sunday best while interacting with household cleaners. I’m beginning to suspect that Gaby dresses him, too. I wonder how far her control reaches with this man.

“Illya, I want you to sit with Mr. Solo and answer any questions he has, and be honest.”

Her tone sounds like someone chiding a small child to be good for the sitter, and I give a small snort. I wish I’d had the opportunity to back out of this conversation, but being the one to have brought it up in the first place I feel like I only have myself to blame.

Illya nods at Gaby, more of a soft bow of his boxy, blonde head. I really have no idea why someone built in such a fashion would enjoy being brought to their knees… I lean back, though, putting one ankle on my knee. Gaby slips out of the room, giving me a small wink as she goes. I’m not quite sure what to do with the Russian now that I’ve got him.

“Sit, please,” I invite, gesturing towards the empty seat across from me. He looks at me like a wary dog, lingering in the doorway for too long.

“Or stand,” I add dryly, putting my hand back on my lap.

The Russian rolls his eyes and leans back on his heels slightly, looking away. “What is it that you wanted, Mr. Solo?” he asks, his tone terse and impatient. Apparently his obedience to Gaby is more singular than advertised.

“Just an honest conversation. Please, sit,” I try again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest chapter so far. I'm not sure when I'll be posting the next update. I really appreciate the comments and kudos. They keep me motivated.


	5. An Honest Conversation

Eventually the Russian sits, though he’s chosen the seat farthest from me. It’s a start, I try to remind myself, but if I were being completely honest it’s a bit irritating. All this time I thought he was avoiding me for the sake of my comfort, but now I wonder if he actively dislikes me. It’s not something I’d even considered before, but if he’s some kind of long suffering lover-hopeful, it makes sense he wouldn’t be happy to sit and chat with his competition.

I realize that I haven’t said anything for many seconds, and the silence starts to get a bit loud. The Russian is just staring at me, boredom carved into every angle of his stony, expressionless face. It occurs to me that I’m supposed to be asking the questions, and as much as I’d prefer it, this likely isn’t going to be your standard conversation.

I’m not overly fond of being put on the spot, but I work rather well under pressure. It goes with my job, my life, my skill set. Unfortunately I still feel like I’m treading into unfamiliar waters as I try to articulate what I’d like to ask...

“... So, uh… Illya?” I ask, giving a slight questioning look at the Russion to make sure I’m pronouncing it right. He just stares back at me, and I take his neutrality as a good sign that I haven’t mangled the pronunciation or otherwise offended him by using his first name.

“... How did you and Gaby meet?”

It seems like a simple enough question, but he tenses and leans away from me. It’s subtle, and if part of my job weren’t reading the body language in the boardroom, I might not have noticed. He’s well controlled, but we’re clearly in the one step forward and two steps back dance routine.

“... We met in a club,” he answers curtly. I wait a few moments for details that don’t come. He seems satisfied with his answers, so I press onward.

“What club?”

“You haven’t heard of it,” he says dismissively, looking away from me. This time he and I both know I’m watching him, and there’s no way that he isn’t screaming his disrespect with these subtle clues. I try to ignore it, but it’s a challenge, and my irritation with the Russian is growing. This man is a guest in my house and he can’t even be bothered to have a polite conversation with me.

“How were you and Gaby first introduced then?” I ask, and my tone is decidedly less kind.

The Russian glances back at the kitchen, like he’s looking for Gaby’s permission through powers of imaginary telepathy.

“She asked you to be honest,” I remind him. I want real answers, any way I can get them, and I’m not stupid enough to trust what Gaby says on the matter completely. I adore her, of course, but that doesn’t mean that I trust her. I’m not an idiot.

“It is not important,” he says. He’s gone from staring at my to actively avoiding eye contact, and the room is growing increasingly uncomfortable under the weight of my tepid inquisition. It’s time to do away with the kid gloves, they aren’t getting me anywhere.

“Alright, I’ll get to the point then. How did this arrangement begin?” I ask bluntly. If Illya wants this to be an interrogation rather than a conversation, then so be it.

“Miss Gaby asked me to be her servant and I accepted,” he says. Finally, a straight answer. I almost want to accept it and move on purely out of relief of having gotten blood from the stone sitting on my sofa. Unfortunately, it doesn’t include any of the details that would help me make sense of their arrangement.

“Why?”

“It gives me pleasure to serve. It is my purpose,” he says, finally meeting my gaze again. There’s an intensity in his eyes that give the impression he’s telling the truth. There’s something about the way that drive looks in a human being that’s unmistakeable, and I can see it in Illya in that moment. I wouldn’t have thought he had much passion for anything before that moment, but perhaps he’s not lying. Perhaps neither of them are lying.

“So you’re...  Happy, with this arrangement? You’ve consented to all this?”

“I consent,” he says. It’s simple and grim and nothing like what I’d expect from someone who claims that their purpose and pleasure in life is to serve underneath someone. Perhaps they are lying, too.

“And you’re happy with this arrangement?” I repeat, emphasizing the word firmly to ensure he knows I want an answer to it.

He stares at me for what feels like an agonizingly long time, and finally gives a small nod.

“I am happy. I have chores to do. Excuse me.”

Each word is clipped, sharp and jagged, pieced together out of tension and frustration. It’s a terrible lie, and I’d be insulted if he actually thought I’d buy it, but he’s on his feet and walking out of the room before I have much time to protest.

Part of me is angry at his disrespect, but even more of me is relieved that the whole interaction is over. I sag back into my seat, left reeling from the rather fruitless interaction, knowing full well that if I express any displeasure in his performance to Gaby it would likely only bring him punishment. I’m not sure if that’s what he wants, but either way I’m not playing his game. If that’s what he gets off on, I’d rather not be involved in it.

I don’t really have any of the answers that I want, but at this point I also don’t care as much as I did ten minutes ago. If the Russian wants to bare his teeth at me for my presence, then let him. Clearly the arrangement is working for him, and for Gaby. I have to admit he does make decent coffee, at the very least, and I don’t exactly miss doing the chores that Illya has taken up.

Surely a grown man three times the size of Gaby is capable of making his own decisions on where he wants to be, I think to myself.

I’m not exactly sure why I have trouble believing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delayed updates. We had a major wind storm that caused a weekend long blackout. Fortunately, my best friend and writing partner helped me give this chapter the finishing touches it really needed. I couldn't have finished it without her.


	6. The Anniversary Dinner

The Russian and I have seen very little of one another since our farce of a conversation, and I like to think we both prefer it that way. It’s been two months since our... ‘House guest’ moved in, but tonight is a bigger anniversary. The fact that I’ve lasted a year in any relationship is always something to be celebrated, and I plan to do so accordingly. I’m not sure if Gaby’s past entanglements were more enduring, but I’ve never been good with long-term.

We’d both planned to take the day off together, but a deadline at Gaby’s magazine has caused a change in plans. It’s nearly seven when I arrive at _Composure_ headquarters, stepping out of the cab onto the rainy plaza. There’s an absolutely hideous sculpture taking up the view of the looming glass building behind it, with people milling about with obvious purpose in their stride. It’s not that dissimilar to my own building, but I feel out of place here.

I’d been under the impression that Gaby would be ready to leave when I arrived, but as the elevator doors open and I lay eyes on her secretary I know that I’m in for a wait. I’ve only spoken with Angie on two occasions, once at a Christmas party where she’d had a bit too much sherry in her punch, and once when I came to take Gaby on a lunch date. She’s quite pleasant, in her own mousy way.

She gives me an apologetic smile that borders on flinching. “Miss Teller will be out in just a moment. She’s just finishing up a little, uh...  Meeting,” Angie tells me with a forced smile. She looks a bit more shell shocked than usual, and I can hear a loud discussion going on in Gaby’s office. It’s obviously been a long day for everyone and I worry that my anniversary date is doomed before it even begins.

“Thank you, Angie. No rush,” I reassure, giving her a placating smile. She instantly deflates, relieved I won’t be heaping any punishment on her for the delay. That kind of unfairness isn’t my style, but I know how common it can be.

The door to Gaby’s office opens briefly and a young man scurries out, papers spilling out of his arms and onto the hallway carpet. With the door open I can hear the crisp, clean notes of Gaby’s voice bellowing out of the office. In the year I’ve known her I’ve never heard her yell, but apparently she’s quite gifted.

“GET those proofs to Demarco and tell him we’ll have to put a rush on the rest of the page because SOMEONE can’t do their job properly!” Gaby shouts. The young man scurries to pick up the dropped pages, apologizing to Gaby’s orange prada heels. She lets the door slam in his face rather than answer him, and I can’t help but wonder just what the poor kid’s done to deserve such a thrashing. I’m not in the Magazine industry, but I know it prides itself on its own intensity and devotion.

“... Rough day?” I ask Angie.

Angie smiles painfully at me and shakes her head. “More like just another Friday,” she admits with resignation. She’s been with Gaby since the beginning, or so she drunkenly once told me. In spite of her apparent temper, she does seem to inspire a kind of loyalty in people, too. People who are very good at what they do tend to do that, in spite of other character flaws.

“I don’t care if you’re here all night! Make sure it gets DONE!” This time so loud I can hear it through the closed door. It only takes a few moments for the young man to start sprinting down the hall, chased by imaginary tigers crafted out of the threat of another encounter with Gaby.

And here I am, waiting to have dinner with her.

When Gaby steps out of her office approximately three minutes later, you would never guess she’d been screaming her head off just moments ago. She’s the picture of perfection, not a single stitch out of place. I’ve always liked to think we have a mutual admiration for composure, but more often than not she leaves me in the dust when it comes to turning it off and on at the drop of a hat. She looks at me with a smile as radiant as the sun, a kind of almost bashful, coy thing. “Sorry you had to see that,” she apologizes as she folds her coat over her arm and join me. “Things are wild this week,” she explains, clearly trying to write off the event entirely.

“Ready?” She asks me sweetly, taking my arm. She looks so petite pressed up against my side, I can’t help but wonder if perhaps there was some other belligerent woman who had been screaming in her office. It seems impossible this angelic creature could be so bloodthirsty. I put it out of my mind as just business; Gaby’s got a whole host of problems I’ll never have to concern myself with, and only a fool would think a woman in her position has it easy commanding the respect of those who work for her.

“Ready,” I agree, folding my own hand over hers and walking with her to the elevators. I catch a glimpse of a mildly terrified looking Angie sorting through papers at her desk as the doors close and wonder if she was being serious when she’d said it was a day the same as any other.

 

\-------------------------------------

 

_Beauchene_ is busier than it has right to be for a rainy Friday evening, but our table is decent so I can’t complain. The waiter offers us the wine menu, but Gaby waves it away and orders a bottle for us both before I can even glance at it. I consider bringing up what I witnessed back at the office, but I don’t want to spoil the mood. With my current track record, I likely won’t be seeing very many one year anniversaries in my lifetime, and I feel somehow obligated to enjoy it.

I realize Gaby’s asked me a question when she repeats my name a second time.

“Sorry, what?”

Gaby makes her disappointment known with a heavy, petulant sigh. “We’re supposed to be celebrating and you’re sitting there with a sour look. What’s wrong?” she asks with a pout. Her tone is still light hearted, though, I can tell she’s trying to flirt me back into a good mood. The high heel sliding against my right leg reassures me I can still read her well enough, even if I am often finding myself at a loss when it comes to Miss Gaby Teller.

I put on a smile and reach across the table to take her hand, squeezing it gently with promises of reassurance as I give her my best woeful look. “Nothing’s wrong,” I answer, more automatic than anything. I regret it as soon as I say it, since it’s such a lie I’m not sure she’ll believe me. “I’ve just got work on my mind. But you’re right, we’re here to celebrate and I promise you have my full attention, Darling.” I hope it’s enough reassurance to smooth things over.

“Good, because I was trying to tell you that I have a present for you,” she says simply, her foot disappearing from my leg. If she’s miffed by my inattention she’s chosen to let it slide, for the time being anyway.

She produces a slim box from her Delvaux handbag and slides it across the able. It’s a brown leather box, clearly from a nice jeweler of some fashion, though there’s no brand label on the top. It’s heavier than I expect, and I’m surprised to find a vintage watch inside. The face is simple and plain, the band a worn brown leather. Vintage isn’t really Gaby’s style, or mine, for that matter. There likely isn’t much in our shared apartment that’s more than a few years old, and this watch looks like it’s existed for at least a decade. There doesn’t even seem to be anything particularly special about it, and it seems like a puzzling gift to get from a fashion editor. She seems to read my confusion, or I’ve taken too long to say anything while staring at my gift, and she leans over the table to smile at me.

“It’s a family heirloom,” she explains, clearly quite pleased with herself. “I thought it would suit you, maybe not for around the office, I know you like to look sharp.” She gives me a little wink, and I relax, putting the box down to pick up the watch. A gift with little expectation to wear it is more my speed, and ever since our House Guest has arrived I’ve caught myself keeping an eye out for any points of my life that may have fallen under Gaby’s control without my awareness. So far I haven’t really found anything, though.

“It’s handsome,” I agree, turning the worn wristwatch over. It looks like it’s been through the ringer, though she clearly had it polished and cleaned up. It’s not a bad watch, perhaps it wouldn’t look so out of place with my more casual about-the-house wardrobe. The sentimentality isn’t lost on me, and I put it back into the box carefully. “I’ll wear it the next time we go to the club.”

She gives me a pleased noise, satisfied as she picks up the box and returns it to her handbag. I decide to take my turn with the exchange of gift giving, and I can’t help but chuckle softly.

“Unfortunately, I haven’t got any family heirlooms beautiful enough for you,” I start, removing the slim red box from the inside pocket of my suit. I can see from the way her eyes light up that me shiny and new is far preferred anyway.

“Oh Napoleon, you didn’t have to,” she says as she picks it up anyway. It’s a long string of gold and diamonds, the man at the store had reassured me that the tennis bracelet was an appropriate year long anniversary gift. The attached price tag had pretty much guaranteed that she’d love it; Gaby and I share a similar love for the finer things in life.

I help her with the bracelet and smile with satisfaction when I see how perfectly it suits her. She seems pleased too, but there’s a secretiveness about her smile.

Gaby reaches into her handbag again. Now I’m worried. Should I have bought a second gift? She retrieves a piece of paper and for a moment I’m relieved, until I realize it’s an envelope containing what looks like airline tickets.

“I have one more gift, this one is really for both of us,” she says, passing the tickets over to me. “Since we’ve been together a year now, I thought it was about time we had a proper vacation. Just the two of us.”

“Italy?” I’m trying to sound more excited than surprised. I’m not sure if it’s working.

“It will be so romantic, Napoleon! We’ll go to all the museums, and shopping, and I’ve heard that they have all the best wines from all over Europe. I had Angie book us on one of the wine tasting tours and everything,” she says.

I don’t like the idea of a trip that I’ve had no hand in planning, especially given Gaby’s... _tendencies_ , but she’s so genuinely excited; how could I possibly tell her no?

“It sounds wonderful, Gaby… but I’m not sure about work. These tickets are for a week long trip,” I tell her, trying to keep from sounding too put out. It’s difficult, though, given everything that’s been going on.

Gaby waves her hand dismissively, the new tennis bracelet reflecting in the candlelight as she waves away my concerns. “I’ve already taken care of all that. I told your boss I wanted to surprise you with a little vacation and he was all for it. He knows you work too hard.”

“You spoke to my boss?” My tone ends up being more alarmed than I intended, but I don’t like the idea of Gaby interfering with my work. We’ve always had a kind of unspoken arrangement that we keep things as separate as we’re able, and I like my life and work _very_ separate.

“Don’t scowl like that, Napoleon,” she chides, taking the tickets back. “I did it for _you_. I promise he wasn’t upset, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed but I can be rather charming,” she teases a smile out of me, and I suppose my defensiveness might be a bit unwarranted. She’s hardly the first person to plan a surprise vacation for someone. I shouldn’t read more into it than that.

“In fact, he said he’s been telling you to take a vacation for two years, he was grateful for the opportunity to get rid of  you for a few days. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t love to see Italy.”

She’s not wrong, the idea of getting away if even for just a week would be nice. Getting to go somewhere as far away as Italy is one of the things I likely never would have done on my own. I let the idea roll around in my head for a moment, pushing aside my moment of worry to actually think about how nice a vacation might be. And a vacation with a beautiful woman to a far away land, no less…

“Of course,” I relent, giving in. I’ve been a bit foolish lately, overthinking things, and that’s hardly fair to Gaby after she’s gone through all the trouble and expense of putting together something so elaborate just for us. I’ll have to make sure to pick something expensive and Italian for her once we’re there as a way to say thank you, but for now I take her hand and give it a kiss.

“Is that why you ordered us the _Giuseppe Quintarelli_?” I ask, thinking back on the expensive Italian bottle she’d insisted on ordering for us.

She grins at me from across the table. “You catch on quick.”

“I’ve been known to, from time to time.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the slower updates. It's a busy month at work. 
> 
> I feel like I should also apologize for the lack of Illya in this chapter, but Gaby and Napoleon needed a little alone time.


	7. The Letter

Italy was everything I needed it to be and I have to admit, Gaby was right. I needed a vacation. I had a few worries about leaving the Russian to his own devices in our home while we were away, but we returned to an immaculate house just as Gaby promised. He’d had more than ample opportunity to run and rob us blind if he’d wanted to, and he hadn’t. I’m beginning to think Gaby’s been right about Illya all along. Whatever sourness I’ve detected was more likely because I haven’t been playing the game. Perhaps it was just my good mood, or all the wine I’d been drinking, but one evening on the white marble veranda of our hotel we had another talk about Illya. In the end I agreed to try things her way. She reassured me if I wasn’t keen on it, I could stop, no questions asked.

Since our return I’ve tried to get in the habit of giving Illya orders, just small ones. I still feel like I’m playing a game to which I only know a fraction of the rules, but it really hasn’t been half bad. And if I weren’t so sure that the Russian didn’t like me, I’d have thought he started warming up to me, which I _really_ hadn’t expected. Life is full of surprises that way, I suppose.

Now, Illya fetches things for me, polishes my shoes, makes my breakfast _exactly_ the way I like it every morning without fail or complaint. He actually seems pleased to do it, like he’s more relaxed when he knows exactly what he needs to do. I suppose I can see some of the appeal, living in a world of black and white expectations; no guessing, no ambiguity. Perhaps Illya and Gaby aren’t so peculiar in their little game as I’d originally thought.

I sit down to another perfect breakfast and consider what task I can give to Illya to keep him from hovering over my shoulder, waiting to serve. It always takes Gaby longer to get ready in the morning, and I don’t like Illya simply waiting while I eat. For as comfortable as I am with this game, there are still some parts I prefer to avoid. I remember the Christmas card from the Company containing the bonus that I’ve been waiting for and gesture towards the door.

“Illya, fetch me the mail, would you?” I ask, cutting into my eggs.

Normally we come home to perfectly sorted stacks of mail; one for me, one for Gaby, and a third for the junk neither of us have time for. Illya looks mildly irritated that I’ve disturbed his usual routine, but he obeys without complaint and returns a moment later with a thick stack of mail. He begins to sort, but I gesture for him to hand over the whole stack.

I’m so distracted by my stack of mail that I don’t notice Gaby until her hand is on my neck and her lips are pressed to my cheek. She smells like a beautifully upscale 5th Avenue shop and fresh makeup. I hope she didn’t get any on my cheek. “Anything interesting, darling?” she asks, looking over my shoulder.

I flip through the stack, revealing a thick envelope with a foreign address. Before I can get a good look at it, Gaby snatches it away with a surprised gasp. I realize rather abruptly that Illya is standing to the side of the table, looking apprehensive and tense.

“... I believe that letter is… Is for me, Miss Teller,” Illya says, barely above a whisper. If the room weren’t so quiet and tense, I might not have heard him. It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak out of turn, _ever_ , and even he seems as surprised to be doing it as I feel seeing him do it. I immediately forget my own mail and look to Gaby as she inspects the envelope. It’s faded, with a slew of stamps and foreign marks and writing. She clicks her tongue, tasking Illya slowly.

“My my, we’re being very bad this morning, aren’t we, Illya? Having your personal mail sent to the _house_ , and in _your_ name?” She asks, holding the thick letter with both hands. For a moment, it looks like she might consider handing it over to him.

“Are you feeling neglected, pet?” She asks in a teasingly pouty tone, but Illya is standing so still I can’t tell if he’s genuinely terrified of her or not. I’ve never considered where Illya might get his mail before, nor have we discussed it, but I do remember Gaby reassuring me that Illya would be as far removed from our personal lives as possible. It makes sense that he’d be forbidden from giving our address as his own, which mean Illya has expressly broken a rule.

“You’ll get this back when you show me you’ve learned your lesson,” she decides simply, turning the letter away from Illya and heading back towards the bedroom. The screaming and yelling I’d expected from her is strangely missing, but Illya looks a bit shell shocked regardless. Considering how she treats the interns at her office, that was surprisingly… Light.

I abandon my eggs and follow Gaby to the bedroom,  curiosity and concern outweighing my hunger.

“You’re really going to withhold his mail?” I ask, watching as she puts the package in the wall safe behind the furs in her walk in closet. It’s the only place in the house Illya can’t go, since none of us know her combination it means the package will remain there until she decides otherwise. It seems a little extreme, considering how well behaved Illya normally is. Now I really want to know what’s in that package.

Gaby seems offended that I’m questioning her, but the irritation is fleeting and her expression softens in an instant. “It’s just part of the game, Darling. I’ll give it back to him tomorrow,” she assures me, though she sounds like she’s tired of having to explain it. I decide not to ask any more questions and watch as she closes the safe door and spins the lock, securing Illya’s letter behind two inches of reinforced steel.

I hope it wasn’t urgent, whatever it was.

“Come on, Darling. We’re both going to be late for work,” Gaby says as she slips on her heels and heads for the door. I follow, glancing into the kitchen as I pass. Illya is washing the dishes. His unflinching demeanor reminds me again that I don’t always understand the nuances of this game.

“Goodbye, Illya. Be a good boy,” Gaby calls out on her way out the door.

I’d follow her for a few steps before I realize I’ve forgotten some papers on the kitchen table. The front door closes behind Gaby and I turn around just in time to see a glass sail through the air, out of the kitchen, and crash into the hall.

A string of what I can only assume are Russian curses follow the glass and I realize that Illya must think he’s alone. The outburst is over almost as soon as it started, and I take a slow, measured breath as I listen carefully. Nothing else comes.

It’s been a long few seconds, but eventually I gather up my courage and pad as silently as I can towards the kitchen, carefully rolling the soles of my feet to avoid making a sound. I peer around the corner and see Illya standing in the center of the kitchen, jaw clenched and hand trembling as if he’s ready to put it right through the wall.

I can’t help but think maybe the game isn’t as fun for Illya as I’ve been lead to believe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long gap between chapters. The last couple of weeks have been rough. I've been busy with work, my cat died, and I've just really struggled to find the energy to write. I hope you enjoyed the chapter. I've got big plans for the next few, and I promise things will get smutty at some point. This fic is just a bit of a slow burn.

**Author's Note:**

> Any feedback is appreciated.
> 
> You can follow me on tumblr at theperilousredpenis.tumblr.com.


End file.
